


caves (where we lived, where we breathe)

by hazy_daisy



Category: Blood of Zeus (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Scene, Canon Compliant, Gen, a civil conversations, and battle the demons yada yada, brief tw for mention of self-mutilation, compassionate take on seraphim because he deserves it. i love him, i tried to keep it even between him and heron though, i would love to tag this with an episode but i don't remember what episode it was, mentions of trauma?, more zeus bashing but not as indepth as it could've been, not part of my boz character studies series cause i'm not sure it counts as one, not really a ton of plot? but i feel like they deserved a conversation that they never got to have, right after heron n crew find where the giant remains were supposed to be, unedited we die like electra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28275726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazy_daisy/pseuds/hazy_daisy
Summary: The mouth of the cave is crashing in, and Seraphim thinks,I can make it.He thinks wrong.When the world has finished crashing down around him, as it always does, and the dust has settled, several things become clear. First, that he didn’t escape that crash unscathed—but, then, he never does, does he? Seraphim hits the ground and is crushed by the weight of the world and he aches and hurts and gets back up to do it again. It’s the way of things, much as he hates it. Second, that the rocks have fallen into two places, creating a small corridor. He is on one side of the rocks. His companions, the manticore and his bident, are on the other side. His brother’s companions have made it out of the cave system entirely.All of them, it appears, except his brother.[self-indulgent fic where heron and seraphim talk, even if it doesn't lead to any reconciliation.]
Relationships: Seraphim & Heron (Blood of Zeus)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 54





	caves (where we lived, where we breathe)

**Author's Note:**

> es i wrote this in two days and didn't bother to take any closer looks at it. it's typo-free, i'm on a road trip, that's all you're gonna get out of me. hope you like it though xoxo

The mouth of the cave is crashing in, and Seraphim thinks,  _ I can make it. _ He thinks wrong. 

  


When the world has finished crashing down around him, as it always does, and the dust has settled, several things become clear. First, that he didn’t escape that crash unscathed—but, then, he never does, does he? Seraphim hits the ground and is crushed by the weight of the world and he aches and hurts and gets back up to do it again. It’s the way of things, much as he hates it. Second, that the rocks have fallen into two places, creating a small corridor. He is on one side of the rocks. His companions, the manticore and his bident, are on the other side. His brother’s companions have made it out of the cave system entirely.

  


All of them, it appears, except his brother.

  


Seraphim does not have the manticore or his bident or the sword meant for a hero that he’s taken regardless, but he knows his own strength. He knows his body. He is a weapon in and of himself—that was the trade, with the demon. Humanity for strength. With his claws, his thicker skin, he can kill Heron easily. He has to. A heaving breath gets him onto his feet, ready to fight.

  


Heron looks… not as good. There’s a cut on his face that’s bleeding heavily, and he’s taken on a pallor that seems unhealthy. Seraphim can take a beating. His brother, it appears, is more delicate.

  


Seraphim wishes that he could see this as his  _ chance _ . A moment that the fates have aligned for him to finally, finally win. All he can see, though, as he looks at his brother’s ghostly, bloody face, is another person to lose.

  


He pushes past it. He would be dead long ago if he let a heartbreak keep him from staying alive. 

  


It takes a few menacing steps towards Heron, lit by the glow of magma veins running through the earth’s core, for Seraphim’s brother to notice his presence. When he does, Seraphim sees a flash of panic cross his face, and there’s a twist in his stomach. 

  


“Wait—please,” Heron gasps out, and coughs wetly, and Seraphim freezes. Not of his own volition. 

  


“Why should I,” he growls, to cover his hesitance. He can’t be weak. Not now. Especially not now. “You refused to join me. I have no reason to leave you alive when you’ve chosen to oppose me.”

  


“It wasn’t much of a choice,” Heron says, trying and failing to get a handhold on the wall of rocks behind him. His hand slips on his own blood. He coughs again. “I wanted to help you, but—can’t let you destroy the world.” Seraphim narrows his eyes, and steps forward, but Heron thrusts out a hand. There’s a cut on his palm, bleeding freely. “Wait! Se—Brother. Listen to me. We’re trapped here, but—” a wheezing breath— “if we’re… if we’re  _ civil _ , here, maybe we can work together to get out. Either way, I promise you, we’re much more use to each other alive, and not fighting.”

  


Being called  _ brother _ has Seraphim stopping again. Heron’s logic is not solid. Seraphim’s not good with words, after a childhood in the woods, away from civilization, but he knows that solid isn’t a word you’d use to describe Heron’s logic by any stretch of the imagination. First off, Heron’s in no state to help anyone, especially not when the opponent is a blockade of stones. Second off, as Seraphim is sure that Heron knows, the both of them are  _ far _ more useful to the other dead. 

  


But Seraphim… Seraphim is hurting, and tired, and talking to the one person left in this world with some real connection to him, and he’s killed enough people with his bare hands to fill countless lifetimes. 

  


He will tell himself it’s because he sees an opportunity to convert Heron, that he cautiously leans against the wall of stones, next to his brother. It’s not the truth.

  


Heron seems to think that his hasty deduction was the deciding factor in Seraphim’s agreeable-ness, and while there’s a simmering pile of coals under Seraphim’s heart that  _ burns _ at being underestimated, he allows him to think this. It’s easier that way. 

  


“You’ve broken a rib,” he says, purposefully nonchalant. “You’re in no state to move.”

  


“You didn’t get off that easy, either, did you?” Heron says, and there’s something almost like laughter in his voice. Seraphim’s head snaps to face him, eyes narrowed, hackles raised, but Heron merely lets out a breath. “In that case, we’d be better off waiting for one side or the other to dig us out.”   
  
Seraphim scoffs, redirecting his gaze straight ahead. “Hardly a winning plan, for you. I have hundreds more people, on my side. The minute they break through, you’ll be dead anyway.”

  


“You underestimate us,” Heron says, defensively. “We’ve got… spirit. Determination.”

  


Seraphim hopes that Heron can see the flash of fire that he imagines in his eyes when he turns to respond. He wants to burn him with his words. “And I suppose that’s what’s kept you all alive, all this time? Spirit?”

  


“That and godly intervention,” Heron says, and Seraphim is so disgusted that he can’t help but laugh.

  


“We do lead different lives, don’t we,” Seraphim says, and the scorn in his voice is directed at the Fates as much as Heron. “Have you enjoyed it? Your time in the golden palaces of Mount Olympus?” He wishes that the biting tone in his voice was more physical. Every time he sees Heron, he wants to tear at something with his teeth. 

  


Heron doesn’t respond. There’s only silence, at Seraphim’s side; as there’s ever been. When he does speak up, it’s with a question of his own. “Why did you turn me down, earlier? When I told you that Zeus could change you back.” To his credit, his tone is determined. 

  


Seraphim scoffs, humorless. It’s almost funny, really, this question. Funny because it’s incredibly stupid. “You didn’t know me before.”

  


He’s not looking at Heron, but he can hear the frown in his brother’s voice. “What do you mean?”

  


Under any other circumstances, Seraphim would be loathe to reveal anything about his past, weaker self, but… well. What could it hurt? This isn’t somebody whose respect is his to lose. It’s obvious that Heron is naive, when it comes to the suffering of the rest of the world. Maybe this will enlighten him. He huffs out a mirthless laugh, and lets his head fall back against the rocks. It exposes the column of his throat, but Heron is so weak and broken that there’s nothing he could do. It almost feels powerful, to expose himself like this. “Shall I recount my childhood for you, then, Brother? Feels a bit unfair. I don’t know anything about your past, after all.”

  


“You know what needs knowing,” Heron says, and there’s the hard edge of anger in his voice, the one that makes Seraphim think that he’d be a worthy ally. “You burned the polis I was raised by. Chased Alexia past the cave where I lived. You met my mother, before you killed her.”

  


Seraphim turns his head away. The memory burns fresh in his mind, now that he knows who it was that he killed. He considers telling Heron that he didn’t know the identity of the woman, at the time. He decides against it. He’s never brought himself anything but pain, recounting his regrets. Instead, he says, “I was raised in a cave, as well. By a…” his throat chokes around the words. He’s not used to saying them. “A servant. Of our mother’s.”

  


There’s silence, from Heron. 

  


“Her name was Adriana,” Seraphim says, because he’s the only one who knows her name, now. Even if Heron does not want the knowledge, his mind hardened by anger, the woman who Seraphim had thought to be his mother deserves to have her memory carried on. In some way. 

  


Heron still doesn’t respond. The only sound in the cave is his labored breathing—definitely a broken rib.

  


“She was killed by the sons of Acrisius. My uncle. I was… young.” Seraphim hadn’t known his age, back then. Not really. Ariana would have known—would have been keeping track of the summers passed, since Seraphim’s birth, but Seraphim has long since forgotten any passing comments she’d made. He still doesn’t know how old he is. He supposes it doesn’t matter, that he will live as long as he can fight to keep himself out of the hands of Hades, but it’s still a stinging reminder in the back of his mind that he has lost everything about himself since becoming a demon. Something occurs to him, and he looks back over his shoulder at Heron. “Did Zeus ever show you what happened to our mother?”

  


Heron’s face is stony with anger, but some flicker of doubt goes across it at Seraphim’s question. “He didn’t have to. I was there.”

  


Seraphim’s eyes narrow. “Not her death. What happened the day that you and I were born.”

  


“No,” says Heron, almost loftily, as if he’s ready to sneer at whatever Seraphim has to say next. Something hesitant flashes through his expression, though. “What do you mean?”

  


“Hera showed me,” Seraphim starts, by way of explanation. “And Zeus, later. The other side of it.” A pause follows, and then Seraphim recounts what he knows. What he’d been shown. Two babies, one with a brilliant pair of blue eyes—the anger of his father. The actions of Heron’s. Seraphim remembers the image of his father’s broken body, pushed from the balcony, and turns his face away to hide his wince.

  


When he turns back, Heron is glaring at the ground in front of him. Seraphim wonders if he thinks it will actually do anything.

  


“I do not work with Hera because I wish to, you know,” he says, almost defensively. He says ‘work with’ because it is painful to be reminded that the reality falls closer to ‘work for’. “I am not a demon because I wished to be. I may be—” he closes his eyes and bites his tongue, for a moment, working himself up to the statement. “Hera’s pawn, for now, but only for the promise that the gods will be overthrown.”

  


“Why  _ are _ you a demon, then? Isn’t that what I asked earlier?” Heron asks. The question is poisonous in its sound. He coughs raggedly once the words leave his mouth.

  


“It was a matter of survival,” Seraphim snaps back, losing patience with the situation. There are bridges he is attempting to cross, with these confessions of knowledge, and Heron is burning them as soon as he steps foot onto them. “I was alone, for years—sickly, malnourished, and I was being chased by a whole unit of guards. I’d almost drowned, moments before. If I hadn’t eaten the flesh of the giant, hadn’t become  _ stronger _ , I would’ve died there.”

  


“Why were you being chased?” There’s a dubious quality to Heron’s tone. Seraphim’s not sure what it means. 

  


He huffs out another bitter laugh. “Would you look at me more kindly if I told you that I had stolen something to feed myself?” Heron’s glare tells him that he is not in the mood for jokes. No matter. Seraphim isn’t, either. He turns his head away. “It was murder. The first man I ever killed. The one who’d killed Adriana.”

  


There’s silence, for a few moments, and then Heron speaks. “Zeus stayed with us. When I was growing up. Not as himself, but…” when Seraphim casts a glance over his shoulder, Heron’s brows are pressed together and his eyes are faraway. Remembering something, then. “He was in the guise of an old man. Elias. He was a good friend to our family. The only friend to our family, actually, since everyone else thought we were cursed. We didn’t have much, but we’d have him over for dinner when we could spare some food. Sometimes he’d get injured, and we’d bring him back to patch him up, and…” Heron drifts off, as if realizing something, brows pressing further together.

  


“Injured? But you said this man was Zeus.”

  


“He was.” Heron’s answer is quick. “He was Zeus in disguise all that time.”

  


“And he still had you care for him when you had nothing?” 

  


“Yes.” The hard edge to Heron’s voice is back. “Yes. He did.”

  


Seraphim knows, logically, that he has nothing in common with his brother except for a birthday. Even their mother… well. Seraphim calls her his mother, now, but his real mother, in all but blood, was Ariana. Still… maybe it’s not out of compassion for Heron, but he feels a rising sense of injustice with the ridiculousness of Zeus’ plan. To make himself a dependent of a family who had nothing. “It seems despicable.”

  


“It was.” Oh, and that’s surprising. Maybe Heron knows to hate the gods after all. “I was angry, when I found out. It’s why I threw the sword.”   
  
Seraphim lets a moment pass. “So it  _ was _ yours, then. I was wondering why I found it in a rock.”

  


Now it is Heron’s turn to laugh humorlessly. 

  


“Why do you help him, then?” Seraphim asks.

  


Heron looks intently at the ground, again. “I don’t know. I didn’t intend to have anything to do with him, but then  _ someone _ killed my mother and threw me on a slave ship, and suddenly saving the world seemed more important than my own issues.” Seraphim averts his eyes again. “And… It was nice. Olympus. Not the gold and marble, but he—he  _ trained _ me, and he looked  _ proud _ of me. Like the father I never got to have, I suppose.” It’s not a light-hearted memory. Heron sounds bitter about all of it. 

  


Seraphim says nothing, and Heron presses him with a question of his own. 

  


“Why do you help Hera?”

  


Seraphim shoots him a glare. “I wasn’t given a choice. I told you. Her plans aligned with the interests of the giants, and…”

  


“And what? You just decided to destroy humanity?”

  


Seraphim actually turns to focus his glare on Heron, this time, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You misunderstand me. My people are stronger. Better. We are bringing about a world without gods who will damn mortals with the slightest whim. A world where what happened to you and I never has to happen to anyone else. Ever again. It will be better. No gods, no selfish, vile nobility.”

  


“What use is a better world if you have to kill everyone to achieve it?” Heron shoots back, rising just slightly from his spot against the wall. 

  


“I offer a choice!” Seraphim protests. “The same choice I was given! Survival or death. If they will not usher in the new era, there is no room for them.”

  


Heron meets his glare evenly. “You don’t even hear what you’re saying, do you. You hold yourself up on a pedestal, better than the gods, all the while willing to cull humanity for not wishing to be turned into demons. Your rule will be no better.”

  


“I don’t intend to rule!” It has been years since Seraphim’s transformation, and the way that his voice turns to a roar still manages to surprise him. “I am a leader only because I was the first. Because I am the only one with the determination to lead our attack. Those who are dead are the casualties of war. You kill my people indiscriminately. You know this as well as anyone.

  


“And even if it wasn’t necessary…” Seraphim breaks off for a moment, turning away. “Everyone I have ever loved has been killed by humans. What reason do I have to keep them alive? It is kind of me, to offer a chance at survival.”

  


Heron’s voice is soft, but determined. “Loss is no excuse.” 

  


“And what would you know of it?” Despite himself, Seraphim hears his voice drop to the same level. He lets his bitterness seep through into his tone. “You’ve only been alone for a few weeks now. And you’ve found a whole cadre of allies. You have the patronage of a god. You may have lost, but you do not feel the solitude.”

  


“I have known hardship,” Heron protests, but Seraphim scoffs.

  


“You, in your gilded clothes, with your enchanted sword that you threw away? No. I can see it in your face. You have worked, and fought, but you’ve never had to survive. Not like I did—sleeping in the streets, stealing to eat. To live. You ask why I would not want to be converted back? Because I was  _ wretched _ . My cheeks were hollow. I was only ever a day or so away from death, if I didn’t find food. You did not think this slanted eye was natural, did you?” Seraphim holds a clawed finger up to his face, traces where he knows his scar to be, etched out in a bright line across his face like the magma running through the stone in the cavern. “Acrisius’ son took my eye, when he killed Adriana. This line of fire is an old scar. When I was transformed, I—I clawed it open, sideways, in the night. If I wished to be human, I could take human form. You’ve seen my people disguised as humans, haven’t you? No, I am better this way. Stronger.”

  


Heron does not respond, so Seraphim continues. 

  


“I could have been a king, if not for Zeus. Instead, the woman who raised me was killed, and I lived in squalor, one-eyed, until I lost my humanity entirely. You may have the benefit of forgiveness, the ability to see Zeus as a father, but I do not. Any capacity I had to forgive died with Ariana.”

  
Another pause, and Seraphim offers his final comments, this time directing his gaze toward Heron. He meets his brother’s blue eyes when he says, “I had hoped that you would join me. I had thought that maybe—that maybe you’d understand. But I see that is not the case. You only called me brother to placate me, didn’t you? To save your own skin?”

  


Heron tenses, but Seraphim scoffs.    
  
“It doesn’t matter. I appreciate the dedication to survival. It’s more than most would have done. I wasn’t wrong, when I told you that your anger made you strong. You would have made a good demon. A good ally. But you are truly committed to your gods, your humans.”

  


“I didn’t want to fight you.” Heron’s voice is soft again. “You’re so insistent on offering choices, but choosing between saving humanity or choosing to destroy it? That’s not a choice at all.”

  


Seraphim thinks, numbly, that the choice was really between himself and the world. As it ever is. One cannot exist with the other, it seems. It doesn’t matter. Any hopes he had of truly having a brother have been crushed. Heron shares half his blood, but he is half a god. And Seraphim is no longer human. There is nothing to connect them, anymore.

  


“I have no more reason to love humanity than you do. Nobody I’ve known has ever accepted me except my mother, and the people I’ve met in this fight. Still, though, there’s a common good to be done. Even if they weren’t kind to me, or to my mother, they don’t deserve to die. I’ll save them, if I can. It’s for all of humanity. There’s good ones out there. The world… fuck, I don’t know what I’m trying to say, but there’s more to life than vengeance and death.”

  


“Spoken like a true hero,” Seraphim says, softly, in turn. “Maybe they’ll put you in the stars, when you die in vain.”

  


Heron falters for a moment, but continues “There’s still time to stop. If you try. The people might not accept you, but… I could convince Zeus to spare you. He offered to change you back. He could do it for the rest of the demons. We could find you some place to live. Peacefully.”

  


Seraphim laughs bitterly. “Again, you mention converting me back. Heron, I will tell you a final time. I would rather be dead a hundred times over than be who I was before.” It’s strange to use Heron’s name. He’s never done it before. “As for stopping—I’ve come too far to stop, now. This war will continue, one way or another, until I have won or until I am dead. And I intend to win.”

  


Heron narrows his eyes, and draws himself up defensively, triggering another round of coughs, and Seraphim rolls his eyes at him.

  


“Our ceasefire holds. This is the final thing I will do in the memory of our mother. Spare you.”

  


There is a pause, and then—”Electra.”

  


Seraphim looks over, puzzled.

  


“Her name was Electra. You have your Adriana. I thought you’d want to know her name.”

  


Silence falls again. Heron is not going to die. Not from this. Not with the strength of the gods running through his veins. It’s almost comforting to think of. 

  


To Seraphim’s surprise, the first sign of light comes from Heron’s wall. The one his friends had made it past. It seems they’ve dug through again. Seraphim tenses—while he is strong enough to take on a man single-handedly, especially an injured one, he knows that the Archon is with them and that she has a sword and the support of several people. He will have to fight for his survival again.

  


Heron looks up at him. The movement catches Seraphim’s eye. Heron examines him with those cursed blue eyes, seeming conflicted, and then says, quietly, “Our ceasefire goes both ways. If you stay quiet, I can tell them that I was here alone.”

  


“Why?” Seraphim asks, his voice more ragged than he intended it to be.

  


Heron’s mouth quirks up in a sort of smile. “Our mother prayed for you, you know. The brown stone next to the blue. She would have wanted you to live. We might not be brothers, not really but… you were her son. In some fashion. I can do this final thing in her memory, as well.”

  


More light floods in, as more stones are moved. Seraphim will have to press himself into the dark corners of the makeshift corridor to hide, soon. He looks back to Heron, the man he had thought would be his brother. There’s something like compassion in his blue eyes. 

  


“We will meet again,” Seraphim says. “On the battlefield.”

  


Heron nods. And then the light floods in.

  


(Heron is received with sounds of relief, of worry over his injuries. Seraphim, pressed up into the shadows, wonders if a similar group of comrades would have been enough to make him think that humanity was worth saving.)

**Author's Note:**

> check out my other blood of zeus fics if you liked this! they're much better written, i promise. i have character studies (of sorts) up for hera and seraphim :)
> 
> other than that, leave kudos? a comment? i'd really appreciate it. and always feel free to start conversations with me in the comments! i have a lot to say about the characters (as you might've guessed if you read my 20k seraphim fic lmao). have a great day!


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